Three Poems of Korea


by Ash Dean

Jiyoung   looks over  a  bowl 

of tiny dried fish      seaweed

and rice  While  I     eat    my

cereal hoops    We          flew

against  the     spin  through

the night  shuttered    inside     

with  an  unquiet mind now

everything  is  off    We  vow    

to keep breakfast       in  our

new time without   sleeping   

I  feel   somehow      divided  

from    myself    Somewhere     

I am       plowing         a field       

or baiting   a hook  morning     

is brisk                I wait      for

water   the         zig zag   line

at immigration       replaced

by the smell   of rusty pipes  

Sitting here   with my   wife

I make another vow to find 

myself  I am   behind   I am

ahead   The good world   It

wobbles as it spins The sky

never waits    but     we are

bound     to          return we

are bound  to    the        arc 

of    the      earth        never

completely    at rest       the

muscle          in our      chest

wherever we        stand      it  

pushes       and          pushes         

but  never    away  while we

ride   We         always     ride


by Bob Perchan

You know you’re
at home
in a foreign land
among an alien
on the street
in the market
at a bus
stop when
from the face
of a stranger
strutting young
blade or dolled
up agashi
(“virgin miss”)
besotted office
drone stumbling
crinkled sidewalk
auntie peddling
and yams
the familiar eyes
of an old
friend decades
a perished father
a lover long
gone over to
the Other Side
stare back

Dear Korea

by Sean O’Gorman

Dear Korea

and your dreamy neon lights,
Nascar cab drivers indifferent to my safety belts,
you’ve always given me a bed,
at times it’s been a park bench,
but if you couldn’t get me home you always woke me up
with sunlight.
Thank you.

When you live across the ocean from your past
done it long enough
you begin to speak mostly in landmarks
and memories.

Being here there’s a list of names
it grows inside of you
you’ll watch it get longer with the more people you meet.

Here we cram lifetimes into years
the way we do holidays into weekends.
Our friends back home will never understand
this shifted perception of time we share.
We blink in months.
The realization of how long I’ve been here
is the difference between surprise
and shock.
I’ve coasted this peninsula for more days
than it has kilometers around it.

The clocks here all speak in rotaries,
the calendars laugh every year I come around.
I swear every single one I buy has fewer days in it.
Time here only recognizes what you’ve done,

It doesn’t care about what you want to do
so we take our hearts out of our chests for each other,
for the people we’ve just met.
When we do meet
when we find each other,
it will be somewhere lost.
It’ll feel like I’ve always known you
been looking for you
didn’t know it until that very moment.

If you’re new I’ll pull you aside.
List all the groups to join online.
I’ll tell you
there’s a truth to the noraebangs,
we half mention it on the nights that never end.

Make the most of your time here,
but be mindful of a few things.
People drive motorcycles on the sidewalks in this place.
Drinking is its own highway
half wonderful
half blackout thunderstorm,
there’s nothing at the end of it,
trust me,
I’ve looked.

If you need me
I’ll always be in the way,
somewhere between last class
and first drink,
look for me where I eat
where the tables are the offspring of building blocks,
they cater to any size crowd.
When I ask to meet you
it’ll be half-way.
Meet me at that place
where for some reason
only one of us knows how to get to,
we’ll speak in pin drops just to get there.

What I love about this community,
the people here
all recommend other people you should meet.

To everyone on that list inside of me
all of you reading this right now,
it’ll feel like a coin toss
which one of us will leave first.
If it’s you
we’ll throw the right kind of party
it will begin somewhere in an afternoon,
shuffle last times
in favourite places.
It will end a few days later
a little more broken
but a bit more ready.
If I’m the one to go
know this
I will carry a piece of you with me,
all my friends back home
will know you by name.
A part of me will break.

When we do leave,
we’ll never fully leave each other,
a part of us will always exist here
like songs lost in a playlist.
I’ll remember you
when I find a sudden genre shift to the music,
where a single drink
turns into an entire night
when I stay up late enough to watch the sunrise
anytime I eat take out
you’ll exist for a moment there
on the outskirts of my peripheral vision.
Remember me when you spell a word wrong,
when one of your friends
drunkenly leaves the bar
without saying goodbye.
I’ll exist in those moments
when they become no longer physical
a landmark trapped in a memory.
a picture in a shoebox
a smile
when you’re all alone.

Ash Dean is an MFA graduate of The International Writing Program at City University of Hong Kong. He grew up in Ferguson, Missouri and currently lives in Songdo, South Korea. His work has appeared in Amethyst, Cha, Drunken-Boat, Gravel, Ma La, Mason’s Road, Red Coyote, Soul-Lit and anthologized in Afterness: Literature from the New Transnational Asia. He is the author of Cardiography from Finishing Line Press.

Robert Perchan’s poetry chapbooks are Mythic Instinct Afternoon (2005 Poetry West Prize) and Overdressed to Kill (Backwaters Press 2005 Weldon Kees Award).  His poetry collection Fluid in Darkness, Frozen in Light won the 1999 Pearl Poetry Prize and was published by Pearl Editions in 2000.   In 2007 his short-short story “The Neoplastic Surgeon” won the on-line Entelechy: Mind and Culture Bio-fiction Prize.  He currently resides in Pusan, South Korea.  You can see some of his stuff on

Sean O’Gorman is a Canadian spoken word poet living in Ulsan, South Korea. He’s the literary editor for Angle Magazine and has been organizing the Cypher open mic in Ulsan for the past 6 years. He’s competed in multiple national and international poetry slams, toured Canada as the featured poet twice, and released 5 collections of his work.

The First Place Where the End of the World Began

by L. Shapley Bassen

     I looked up from my drawing into the blinding sunlight but could not see more than the silhouettes of the bodies speaking above me. Among the dark, deep voices speaking rapid Greek was a familiar woman’s voice also speaking in that strange language, all oo’s and k’s and plosive p’s.  Beside me in the trench dug ten feet into this archeological earth was another member of the Brit team, a girl in her twenties named Juliet. She and I got on only civilly because she was a London type and I was a Scot she nicknamed ‘Burr,’ more I think for my temperament than my thick accent. I was sketching Juliet’s dig, out of which were emerging large decorated jars and something which at this stage look like a shelf. Juliet could speak Greek.

     Juliet translated, “You are raising the dead. We go to pick tomatoes and see the bright light before the sun rises over – solid bodies – carrying shields above their heads.”

     “Who are they?” I asked Juliet.

     She shushed me, threatening me with the brush. An official-sounding voice spoke above us then.

     “The police,” Juliet said. “Agreement with Athens not to disturb the quality of life on Santorini – “

     “Tell that to the dogs who own this island – “

      Then again came the voice that could silence me. The American professor who was the director of the expedition, Irene Demas. She had my left upper incisor in her shorts pocket.

     “We will of course do all we can,” Juliet translated, “to stop – to eliminate – this disturbance.”

     A peasant’s deep voice interrupted.

     “What? You must stop the digging! My vines will not grow under ghost – under the feet of ghosts!”

     Irene’s voice replied, drifting down out of the murderous sunlight like a cool breeze. Juliet translated:

     “We will watch. Then we will try to understand and –” Juliet turned to me, at a loss for words. “It’s like ‘make amends’, I think, but I don’t know the expression. There are lambs in it.”

     The police official spoke in English. “You will stop the excavation?”

     “I will watch, myself, tonight,” Irene repeated. “This is your island. We are guests in your home.”

     The official spoke in Greek too guttural and rapid for Juliet to translate. But she had no trouble with the farmer’s thanks, “Efkaristo, sas efkaristo poli.”

     I climbed out of the trench, letting Irene see I was there, but keeping a distance as the group leaders joined her. These were my Brit boss and a professor from Athens, assistant to the big shot whose idea Irene had been able to marshal the American money to realize. Because what we were all doing in the 1960’s on the Cycladic island of Santorini/Thera, in the best and hottest summer of my life, was excavating Atlantis.

     In the Timaeus, Plato told the story about a divinely circular island in the western ocean. ‘But afterwards there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune…the island of Atlantis…disappeared in the depths of the sea.’ The big shot from Athens was a seismologist who had reported his findings of a 16th century b.c.e. volcanic eruption on an island sixty miles north of Crete. The tidal wave from the Atlantis eruption had been anywhere from 200 to 750 feet high when it hit land all around the eastern Mediterranean. The Athenian also theorized that the Atlantis explosion explained the lowering and rising of coastal water described in Exodus. In other words, the eruption at Atlantis (five times stronger than Krakatoa) was the apocalyptic event of the ancient world, remembered in the fundamental stories of Western civilization. When Atlantis exploded, drowning surrounding islands and most of Crete, it became the first place where the end of the world began.

     Greece was in the midst of a coup d’etat, and the big shot in Athens hadn’t been able to get funding to prove his theories. Enter Professor Irene Demas, now with my incisor in her pocket. The States were having their own imperial problems in Southeast Asia at the time, but from what I understood, the war only made the country richer. As a most junior assistant professor in scientific illustration at Cambridge, I was ignorant of all these matters until impressed into service (tempted by a fantastic summer salary) to join the Cambridge part of the archeological expedition. There were land folk from the States and Britain and Athens, and American sea folk with astonishing tech equipment from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Labs, ships and seismologists, scientists, archeologists, mythologists, photographers, and lucky me, the one with the colored pens and pencils and expensive paper all paid for by the Americans.

     In the afternoon, when work had been called off, Professor Demas located me deep within one of the cliff caves where I daily went during lunch-siesta, pretending to sketch though actually sipping bottled water and sleeping on a colorful woolen throw rug.

     Irene said, “I need a bodyguard for tonight.”

     She was nearly fifty then; I was twenty-seven. She was five feet tall and thin as a boy except for the curve of her hips and braless breasts. She wore her brown hair braided and coiled like a crown, grey at the temples like her eyes. I had seen Irene Demas calm wild dogs with words in their language, which only possibly was Greek. She had seen me with the three Athens toughs who’d tried to mug her on our first night in Greece before the expedition had flown over to Thera.

    Then, I only knew her by sight from the plane trip from London. We arrived at Athens midday and had spent most of the afternoon getting to our hotel and reaffirming arrangements for the flight to the island. I was glad to let the grownups take care of all of it and try my luck with Juliet, the result of which was I slept alone the rest of that afternoon into evening and was nudged awake by my roommate, John, an overeducated fellow from Cornwall eager for companionship for dinner in a strange city. The July night felt as hot as noon in Britain. The crowded, noisy, modern streets were a great disappointment. Like any first-time tourist to Athens, I imagined I would be traveling back in time as well as space. John and I ate oily food and drank mentholated wine. I abandoned John to his own devices, which convinced him I was a stereotypically antisocial Scot.

     I became lost in trying to regain the hotel. Thankfully, some American college kids approached me with their instant coffee camaraderie and correctly directed me. I remember alleys of whitewashed stone, stinks of strange foods and organic fluids, and above all the nauseating sounds of an alien language closing in on me. People leaned out of windows. Everywhere there were second story balconies like those unearthed on Thera.

     I saw a tiny woman in a long khaki skirt and white blouse walking ahead of me. I recognized her as the American professor. She had a sweater or shawl tied around her shoulders. Self-possessed, holding her sack close to her body. I heard footsteps behind me. Three boys ran past me, waving me off with threats I didn’t need to translate. They blocked her path. She spoke to them in cool-toned Greek, and maybe she would have handled them as ably as she did the dogs on Thera, but I saw one of them lean in for her sack.

     I expected to fight. So, fists and some feet, and a whistle! that was Irene, blowing a piercing whistle – I got two of the three down quickly. I was sweating, and it was so hot, I drank the blood in my mouth like water. I faced the third teddy boy. I hit him easily; his hands were up in protest, not in fists, “Parakalo, parakalo,” he kept crying. The three of them lay on the stone street. People were above, calling out, some curses, some cheers (Irene translated later), and there was Irene, holding a small shiny revolver in her left hand. She knelt and picked up a bloody tooth from the ground. My incisor. She wrapped it in a tissue from her sack and placed my tooth in her skirt pocket. Shortly after, at a hospital emergency clinic, she offered it to a dental surgeon. She told me she had retrieved it for this reason, but I already knew better about that woman. She had an eye for bones.

     At noon in the grey Theran cave, I said, “You don’t need a bodyguard against Minoan ghosts or anything else.”

     “The report of a woman alone would not be believed. The men chose you to accompany me.”

     “Should I believe you?”

     For the first time, Irene looked surprised by something I said. 

     “There are fifty underlings you could have sent on this errand,” I added.

     “I’m what they call in the States a micromanager. My husband, of course, called it something else.”

     She wore no ring. And noticed my glance.

     “Where, tonight?” I said.

     From her shorts pocket she took a hand-drawn – my work – map of the site and pointed to a group of huge, flat blocks believed to have been part of a palace wall or, possibly, temple altar stones. I nodded in compliance. At the cave entrance, which was a natural opening in the rock cliff that over centuries had been bricked into formal arches appropriate to the religious rituals inside the caves, the professor paused, almost as if she could see herself from my perspective, doubly framed by archway and the sunshine outside. Her face was completely hidden in shadow, her form haloed in white light. Only her voice reached me.

     “I was disappointed in Athens,” she said. Her American accent sounded sheared, like a sheep. “I was disappointed,” she repeated, “to find your violence erotic. But it was the men who chose you because you act more like a bodyguard than an academic.”

     Her unease managed to make it sound like an insult as much as a compliment. Then the space she had darkly filled was empty and became a brilliant doorway.

Minoan Snake Goddess

from Knossos, Crete
c. 1600 BCE
height 131/2
 inches (34.3 cm)

(Archeological Museum, Herakleion)

     That cadmium white light stirs in my memory into the matte black spinel of that Theran night. It felt different from other nights when I had swum in the caldera and lain on a quay, cooled by the meltami, the summer wind that never stopped blowing. But I had been with others and scorned their romantic tales of history and myth. That night, I climbed alone to the Akrotiri ruins. I carried a large torch, but it hardly penetrated a darkness that seemed to go back in time as well as space. So I gave up and turned out the light, laying down my sleep rug on one of the wide stones. I had never seen the stars so close. Then I heard the Professor approach before I saw the beam of light from her torch.

      I had resolved not to make conversation. Apparently, Irene had made the same decision, so we sat or walked about mutely, separately, for several hours. I watched the zodiac slowly move across the sky. I won. Irene broke the silence. She sounded like an oracle.

     “Kalliste — most beautiful — was its first name, this island. Jason interpreted the dream of one of his Argonauts on their return with the Golden Fleece. Jason told Euphemus to throw a handful of earth into the sea. Kalliste grew up out of the water from that toss. Euphemus’s descendants settled on Lemnos and then Sparta, and finally Theras came here. The island is named Thera for him.”

    “Where did Santorini come from?”

    “For Saint Irene of Thessalonika. Patron saint of the island.”

    Irene moved into the crossed beams of our torches which lighted her from below.

    “How did you learn to fight like that?” she said.

    “Until a month ago, I was illustrating pig dissections and teaching a class frequented as often by anatomy students from the med school as by art students. I learned to fight by being hit. Which is why I left.”

     Silence. She won. I said, “You believe the Athenian’s theory that Deukalion’s flood was the tsunami of the Atlantis eruption?”

     “We’re trying to excavate the truth.”

     “I don’t understand the archeological quest.”

     In the torchlight all I could see was her lower torso and the blunted outline of the stones. The sky was close, the ground still gave off heat, and the wind never stopped blowing.

     “Neither did my husband. He was more interested in holding on to the future than the past. He married one of his students. Your age, I should guess. The dentist in Athens was amazed by your eyes.”

     “Did he think I was a Nea Kameni vampire?”

     Irene laughed. 

     “That’s a yes,” I said. “Do you have children?”

     “They’re teenagers at camp in their father’s custody for the summer. I wondered if your eyes were like a cat’s and would reflect light in the dark.”

     My eyes were a hazel so pale they looked yellow, rimmed by remnant RNA for dark brown pigment in three rings. My mutant iris looked like Plato’s map of Atlantis before the eruption.

     I returned to steadier ground. “There was the Flood. A dove and land. Deukalion went ashore to pray for the restoration of humanity. ‘Throw the bones of your mother behind you,’ the oracle said. Deukalion–”

     “—and his wife, Pyrrha,” Irene added.

     “—and his wife, Pyrrha, decoded that it meant to throw stones over their shoulders. Where the stones landed, men and women sprang up.”

     At that moment, at Irene’s ankles I saw two black snakes appear. She felt them and looked down.

     “These are harmless,” she said, and to my horror, she bent over and took one up in each hand. The crescent moon had risen high enough so that it looked like a crown on her coiled hair, her bare neck as white as the moon. Untrustworthy, re-created memory! The torchlight stayed on the ground, but that is how I remember it, Irene standing like a Minoan goddess, snakes in hand, winding around her bare arms.

     We must have slept. I know this: we came awake in the dark with the sense of dawn near. The stars were occluded by cloud. The cow horns of the moon must have passed overhead to the other side of the mountaintop. I was lying on the rug and Irene was close beside me. I turned. I couldn’t see her face.

     I said, “Parakalo. Please.”

     “Ne,” she whispered, “yes.”

     Euripides wrote: “And in the very surge and breaking of the flood, / the wave threw up a bull, a fierce and monstrous thing, / and with his bellowing the land was wholly filled.” The bellowing noise was the earthquake. It was the dogs barking that night on Thera. It was my blood pounding in my ears. I saw lightning like no lightning I had seen before, many-branched like a giant tree. It lasted too long, on and on for seconds, for minutes. This lightning was the same that lighted Jason the way through the volcanic cloud’s darkness to neighboring Anaphe. The eruption ejected ten cubic miles of island up into the sky so far it was seen and recorded in China. The exhausted island sank 1300 hundred feet into the sea, forming the beautiful caldera bay where now varcas bobbed in the light. Which too came. A brief shower, like a mist, cooled us. Cloud rose off the water, rolling like waves above the waves. It rose up the mountainside over the sleeping white houses tucked into the cliff face, and it floated in the fields which our mountaintop view spread below us. She was small, peaceful on my chest.

     “This is where the end of the world began,” she said, quiet for more heartbeats, and then she sat up, startled. “Look!”

     I followed the line of her snake-bare arm. In a distant field, the cloud-like mists assumed human shapes, and the sky was lighted from beneath the rim of the wine dark sea. Silver light was turning gold. Then in a trumpet-like silence, out of the bronzing Mediterranean the sun rose, huge and whole and round, pink, then as if reddening with arousal.

     “It’s the mist!” Irene was laughing. “It’s the mist!”

     The climbing sun rayed down and through the earthclouds, making the uppermost layer gleam like blinding metal shields. Irene stood up, her back to me, watching the quickening meltami move the mist like a battalion. I found her long skirt on the altar stone. I dug out my lost tooth from her pocket and threw it away behind me.

     The mist explanation satisfied the locals. It was the professor’s deference to them that mollified the peasants; I doubt anyone in authority had ever treated them with respect before, back to the time before the Minoans had escaped the Flood. Where had they all gone, the 30,000 or more Kallisteans whose skeletons were never found but one? One human skeleton and one piglet left alone on all Thera before the end of the world. Who warned them? How did they know? Where did they go? The researchers debated these questions endlessly throughout August as the frantic excavating continued against a deadline and daily threat of the mercurial moods of Greek generals and xenophobes.

     I knew. The high priestess had saved her people, directing them to sail to their ports in Phoenicia and Spain, to outposts as far north as England. And millennia later, when the Romans finally came, we fled again farther north and west. Those snakes St. Patrick banished from Eire? Those standing stones in the Orkneys where I summered as a boy?  Not the first end of the world at all, the beautiful island thrown into the ancient sea had generated immortal waves. 

Two Poems for Paris

Paris by Carol Alena Aronoff

Paris was always more than Paris:
the light of Monet’s garden
illuminating Renoir’s picnic,
the playgrounds of Matisse, Lautrec.
Art drunk with croissants
every morning
on lace-covered tables
with forsythia blooms
in cerulean,
the aroma of burnt sienna-
cups brimming with water lilies,
pure ambrosia
soft like ripe brie.
The Jerusalem of Chagall
where every man
who sees the fiddler
on Notre Dame’s roof
becomes a Jew.
Even mounds of lush peaches
form fine sculptures
outside Georges Pompidou station,
art, like lunchtime lovers
spilling everywhere.

Exhausted Soil by Alice-Catherine Jennings

Flattened out, zip lined to zero
I feel the flames spear out & rip
through the gambrel of Our Lady—
Notre Dame…“La flèche! La flèche!”
the spectators sob as the spire collapses.
How can I then return in happy plight

to Paris? That roof—lattice of wooden
beams cut from trees in pristine forests.
Trees so huge they exist no more. Now I—
must weep for the trees! And night doth…
make grief’s length seem stronger.
And yet,
in Iraq when St. Elijah, Dair Mar Elia

was crushed by ISIL fever, clouds did
not blot the heavens of my thoughts.

*How can I then return in happy plight and And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger are lines from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 28.

Carol Alena Aronoff, a psychologist, teacher and poet whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has published a chapbook, Cornsilk and five full-length poetry collections: The Nature of Music, an expanded, illustrated CornsilkHer Soup Made the Moon Weep; Blessings from an Unseen World  and Dreaming Earth’s Body : poems by Carol Alena Aronoff, paintings by Betsie Miller-Kusz . Her sixth full-length poetry book, The Gift of Not Finding: Poems for Meditation, is forthcoming in 2020 from Homestead Lighthouse Press and another chapbook, Tapestry of Secrets will be published by Finishing Line Press in November.

Alice-Catherine Jennings grew up in Ohio playing the accordion at poker parties. After years of working/studying here and there in the US and in Mexico, Colombia, Germany, Italy, and Portugal, she now lives in Santa Fé, New Mexico. Her poetry has appeared in various publications worldwide. 


by Bob Kunzinger

Late at night we drink tea with a hint of mint and sugar stirred in the dark leaves. Traditionally, at least here in Senegal, the host pours the pot from high above a few glasses, no drops missing. First, the chief or a guest or someone with a birthday will slurp it from the rim of the glass until it is empty, and then more is poured from the pot’s high perch and the glass is passed to the next person around the fire. The tea is potent. By eleven pm my African friends, whose nature and genes defy caffeine, sleep peacefully while I, well, I clean the village, repair the Mosque wall, redesign the flawed forage, and fill the troughs.

This tea opens my veins. Once I couldn’t sleep, so I scrubbed the kettle, rid it of months of food chunks, rice burned black to the inside. At dawn, our cook cried, “Who cleaned the pot?!” I confessed and smiled, but everyone stared, shook their heads and walked away. That night the rice was dry and bland. Weeks passed before whatever had grown or crawled inside the kettle returned and flavored the food. I blame the tea.

The tea ceremony is called Attaya. The first round is strong and bitter, the second sweeter with a hint of mint, and the third round is sweet and minty. It mirrors friendship, which grows over time to reflect how the longer we know each other the sweeter the relationship becomes. What happens most during Attaya, however, is talk. We consume conversation. We talk about the rain, if there is any, the wind, which is more common, and the oppressive sun. And the villagers return to their natural spaces, rest or sleep peacefully. I leave the fire wondering if I had enough materials to tunnel to Mauritania. I just can’t sleep.

I usually drink first, last and sometimes after each other friend around the fire until I am tea’d up as if I drank two pots of espresso. I vibrate. I stare at the stars while friends snore nearby, and I redesign the heavens. At home, I might have dozed off in front of a movie after a snack, seldom walking out to see the stars, settling instead for the famous ones on late night television. But not in the village where after the tea and conversation around the fire leaves everyone fast asleep, I sit up straight at three am and find astrological images of American authors. “Look,” I’d tell no one, “there’s Hemingway! And Orion’s belt looks like the shotgun he used. And there to the south is Fitzgerald, the racist bastard. Look, there’s Zelda picking his drunk ass up off the floor.”


But, unlike at home, it doesn’t wear off. No ebbing sense of tiredness, no headaches when I don’t drink. No. When I first arrived in the village, the chief looked like God; he is taller than most, well over six feet anyway, and dark, with long, thin, strong arms, and a white robe that wraps down his legs. He is ancient and eternal. He is Achilles. He is Gandhi. He is Mohammad. Even when doing nothing at all, this man has complete determination about him.

“What is your purpose here?” he asked me in those first days. “Why are you here?”

“To see what’s out here; to meet people like you,” I said, and he nodded. “To have a look around,” I added. “To see more stars. You have more stars than we do at home.” We laughed, and that first night he poured tea in some beautiful and ritualistic way. I had traveled often, but never before had I felt so safe, so in touch with a group of people, and so welcomed. I wondered what life here would have been like had the Europeans not decided for them what their future held. At the same time, I could not imagine a more genuine existence. I stayed.

One night, while staring at the stars, after I found the zodiac which resembled the Stoning of St. Stephen and profiles of Chinua Achebe, I went out to the well where men did not go during the day, and I hauled up water for the emaciated cattle. Some nights I’d study Arabic, listen to men chant, grind millet into flour, and teach myself Fulani. Often, I’d walk outside the village wide awake, stupid awake, like the personification of some nocturnal double-shot, and I’d blend with the sound, the lack of sound, the immersion of my entire self in the liquid of African sound and listen to what was missing. It took a complete opening of my senses to finally tune in to what wasn’t there: no sound of blame or disillusionment. No sound of hypocrisy. All I could hear in that tight-rope awakeness was that one passing moment: the complete absorption of now.  It took an absolute absence of civilization to feel completely aware and connected.

It wasn’t the tea. Sugar and caffeine had nothing to do with this.  

When I first came to the village, I bought space in a van on Saint-Louis Island just below the Mauritanian border. The driver, a tall Toucouleur man with black etched marks on his temples, told me to join them. At one point on the all- day trip east to the village, across the river region of Senegal, our van driver pulled over to sell us to another driver. They negotiated beneath the hood of the van while we sat in the dust of the worn-out road, its edges chewed by age and wind, some portions completely digested by drought, and those of us who weren’t Muslim ate rice and drank warm water beneath the oppressive May sun.

We were sold quickly to the other driver and eventually we left. At dusk again, we pulled over so the driver could break fast along with any others who so desired, and shortly later we continued on to our final stop where well after dark I trekked on foot across the barren land.

I was befriended by many in the small village, and through hand signs and a friend who spoke Pulaar, we communicated. Eventually, the conversation moved toward history, toward colonialism, toward the west, and toward slavery. I told them I was on Goree Island a month earlier. It, along with Saint-Louis Island where I spent the night before catching the van east, had been holding areas for slaves during French rule from the 1600’s through the 19th century, and even before then as ships moved back and forth to Lisbon. Saint-Louis, in particular, became the crossroads of all things West Africa. It was the gathering place for Europeans and Africans, Christians and Muslims, slaveholders and slaves. It was on a West African island like Saint Louis where Europe first stole the heart of West Africa when Antonio Gonsalves brought Africans back to Portugal in the 1400’s and began one of the longest sustained genocides in the history of humanity. It was simple enough to pit Africans against each other—supplying arms to one area, such as Mauritania, to capture another area, such as Senegal. What remains, then, is a region raped of her strongest men, her most able women, and her very future. What strength this continent must have had and lost. It was only later in the village I discovered the idea, the faith, that is Inch’Allah, “if God agrees.” I had never experienced faith like this where fasting is a pleasure and where sacrifice is a gift.

And every night, I look forward to the break of fast, so with my friends, I can drink potent tea.

Awake doesn’t really describe it. It is the kind of consciousness that comes with the confidence that everything is going to be alright. You can’t legally grow that. It doesn’t brew well.

At dawn, before the fast of day, there is a way in which everyone wakes, smiles, and moves like fluid through the small village. It is Ramadan, and people eat before dawn to sustain them through the day, when through fasting rather than swallowing they seek the grace of Allah, and the pangs of hunger remind them of their pure pursuit of the truth. Then as the sun sits on the horizon, they wait, watching, water and bread at the ready, to break their fast and come to life, culminating before long in Attaya.

But for me it is the space, the unreachable horizon, the vast imagination of Africa spread like distant but promising hope. It is that quick but fleeting moment of clarity that makes me sit up straight and watch the increasing soft glow on the eastern plains. It is the persistence of some primitive way of life that had no chance of surviving but survives anyway which finds me in prayer and at peace, which keeps me awake searching the heavens.

Bob Kunzinger is a writer now living in Virginia who lived in Africa for some time. His work has appeared in World War Two History, The Washington Post, and many newspapers and journals throughout the world. He has published eight collections of essays, and several works have been noted by Best American Essays. Bob is currently at work on a book of essays about crossing Siberia with his son.

The above ATTAYA image is taken from here.

Howie Good

Ashes, Ashes

About 5 in the morning, while most passengers were still asleep, the train barreled across the short border between darkness and light. My carryall bag on the overhead rack contained an entire set of ant-dreams in polished amber. Spies lurked everywhere. “Moose. Indian,” they reported me telling a contact. Actually, I wouldn’t meet my contact, an Orchid of Asia, until some days later. At one point I forgot the word “cremated” and had to ask her, “What’s it called – incinerating the body?” We were standing in a muddy alley by a pomegranate tree whose fruit the children pretended were bombs.

The Wind

Somehow we were always expecting something like this, a strange wind off the Atlantic, moaning and cursing and full of old hurts, tearing shingles from roofs and slamming birds against windows, threatening to fling us, too, into another country, where there are roadblocks and random document checks and coked-up child soldiers with machine guns cradled lovingly in their arms, and still it comes as a shock, so many people given a shove or a thorough beating and warned to move on, a pretty crappy way to die, when we might have just stayed together under a green tent of leaves.

Howie Good is the author of I’m Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submission Press.

72 Hours in Goa

by Mordecai Feldman

Editor’s note:  My cousin, Mordecai “Morty” Feldman, occasionally writes articles for the Travel section of The New York Times. Last winter, I joined him and his wife for a trip to Goa, India. He sent me the following story, which will soon be published in the Sunday magazine supplement, pending a few revisions and editorial streamlining. In exchange for me keeping quiet about a few indiscreet moments of the trip, he agreed to let the readership of Foreign Literary Journal have the first look at his dispatch. You’ll note that I do not appear in his article. This is not because I asked to be left out; it’s because Morty informed me that he just didn’t like me very much.

–Steve K. Feldman

Good old Goa!  Good-as-gold Goa: the golden jewel of the Indian Ocean coast, former Portuguese trading colony, cradle of Full Moon Party hedonism, famed stop on the Hippy Trail from Istanbul to Bangkok in the swinging 60s, and my home for a month the summer after my sophomore year at Dartmouth, where I truly found myself.

Laugh if you want.  Yes, I was strolling along Goa’s fine white-sand beaches, watching the sun, the color of a ripe pomegranate, sink into the placid sea, watching a team of locals drag a fishing scow up onto the sand. When they finally had the boat stowed next to a grove of coconut palms, they collapsed from near-exhaustion, but they smiled and laughed in easy camaraderie, and shared cigarettes; their thin, lithe brown bodies oily with sweat—perfectly at ease and peace, content with their hardscrabble existence.  They had everything they needed in their little world right here—and how lucky I was to share just a sliver of it.  It was at that moment I decided to switch majors from Hebrew literature to finance and management. So I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Goa, and let me tell you, as an options trader at JPMorgan-Chase, I don’t often get accused of having a soft spot for anything, except for making great gobs of money.

Of course the whole Full Moon rave has long since moved on to Koh Phagnan in Thailand, and Goa as a whole seems to have suffered from the “nobody goes there anymore, it’s too crowded” Yogi-Berra-ism, with most of my friends these days, when heading out for Asian vacations, opting for eco-tourism in Myanmar, Sumatra, and Borneo instead of the sandy stalwarts of Goa, Phuket, or Bali.  So, with my trading desk closed for a few weeks as SEC agents combed through our hard drives looking for the evidence of insider trading I’d erased months earlier, I found myself with time on my hands. I thought Goa was fresh for a re-visit to see if the tandooris, the masalas, the chais, and of course the fiery vindaloos were as good as I remembered or at least better than Sammy Najapur’s on W. 53rd St., which always catered our casual-Friday lunches until our real estate subsidiary bought their building and tripled the rent, forcing them to move to Hackensack but hey what are ya gonna do?

My first pleasant surprise came when we found out that Goa had its own international airport. (“We” being my latest wife of 10 months Tayghan, who insisted on being mentioned in this article. Okay Tayghan, you got your wish. You got mentioned in the New York Times Travel section!  Congrats! Happy now? Do your friends and family down in Richmond even read the Times?) With its own airport, that meant we could fly straight in from Charles de Gaul without mucking about in Mumbai, which still seemed to be reeling from the latest Pakistani-funded terrorist attacks. It would have been nice to stay at the Taj Hotel again and taste the excellent brioche from their patisserie, but apparently the last of the jihadists had holed up there, and the Indian security forces’ elite Black Squad had to pry them out with tear gas and flamethrowers, and since then, word is the espresso there just doesn’t taste right anymore—residue from the tear gas perhaps?

From the airport, I decided to rough it for the ride to the beach. I was already in the spirit of my old backpacker days, so we hired a private car for $80 instead of a private limo for a still-reasonable $250. Tayghan protested, but I insisted we start out by getting an up-front, up-close-and-personal, boots-on-the-ground taste of Goa, and what better way to start than by sitting only 3 feet away from our private driver, instead of 9 feet away and separated from him by a plexiglass divider?  India is all about the smells, and I wanted to smell our driver—that strange cumin / coriander / fenugreek / turmeric smell that Indians tend to faintly exude even when freshly bathed.

Goa’s accommodations truly run the gamut—there is something there for every taste and every budget—from the flashy 5-star resorts like the Amari Golden Mandala upwards of $1200 a night for an ocean-view suite, all the way down to charming little boutique resorts like the one we opted for, called the Anjuna Beachcomber Inn, at a wallet-friendly $280 a night!

Upon check-in we were greeted by the owner himself, a charming rotund little Bengali gentleman named Naresh who had somehow escaped the “shithole of Kolkatta” (His words! His words!).  He was now living his dream running a little beach hotel, serving spicy curries and cold mai-tais and making friends from all over the world (You just made two more, Naresh!  Good job! You have the cutest little head-wobble!)

After stowing our bags, Tayghan immediately wanted to go shopping. I thought she might have been all shopped-out from the Duty Free in Paris during our layover—but guess again!  So I forked over my credit card and we strolled along the little strip of shops in the lane behind the beach. We bought some silk saris ($70 each), a teak incense holder in the shape of a hooded cobra ($135), and some bronze wind-chime mini-gongs ($325). Make sure you bring your hard-bargaining skills to Goa—you can easily get 30-40% off the first quoted price, if you’re not worried about being seen as a cheap Jew. Tayghan was soon oohing and ahhing over some driftwood sculptures of Shiva and Vishnu that she thought would look great at our cottage in Easthampton, and picked out three or four. Tayghan stayed to work out the shipping details with the owner, and I continued on down the street.

Music was coming from several different shops and beach bars, creating a hypnotically mellow mash-up entwining Bob Marley, sitar-and-bamboo flute melodies, Hindu chanting, and Coldplay.  I passed by an incense and wall-hanging shop with its owner standing in the doorway surveying the passers-by with an easy grin and a twinkle in his eyes.

“What do you need, Boss?” he said.  “Weed? Coke? X? Acid? Anything you want, no hassle, boss!”

Well! Soon I found myself sitting on a coach in the shop’s back room, waiting for the runner to return with my order, the owner and I chatting about the changes to Goa in the last 20 years. “So many Russians now, my friend!” he said. “They are completely exasperating. I must admit to you!” And then the head wobble, followed by, “But they do have lots of money you see!  And so we must be welcoming to them!”

“The men are pigs, but their women are hot!” I remarked.

He gave me another wobble and said, “On that we can agree, my friend!” And then the runner came back with my order: three hits of Israeli ecstasy (Flash! lightning-bolt imprint–$25 dollars each), a gram of coke (Columbia, shade-grown coca leaves, fair-trade certified–$80), two tabs of acid (Amsterdam, Snoopy Sopwith Camel imprint—$15  each), and a half-ounce of cheap Cambodian weed ($30). I added 10 Goa keychains and bottle-openers (50 cents each) for our secretaries and cleaning staff back at the office. Can’t forget the little folk!

With both Tayghan and I worn out but satisfied from our shopping haul, we spent the rest of the afternoon lounging by the pool. For dinner, we opted for the restaurant at the Imperial Lisbon Coconut Hideaway where the pistachio-crusted sea bass and curried king-prawns with the truffle glaze were simply to die for! The wine list was surprisingly impressive—as I sipped from an impressive bottle of Argentinian Torrontes Ugni blanc ($280), I thought, wow, am I really in Goa? And as I did a line of coke in the men’s room while Tayghan was chatting with the young Russian couple at the adjoining table, I thought, “oh yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. Whooooooo, FUCK!”

I came back to the table, and found that Taygan’s new friends Dmitri and Sasha had invited us to a rave party on the beach by their resort! Well, I was a little too old for raves, but what the heck! Goa was truly a place for making new friends, and the X and the acid would make the music palatable, I thought.

“So are you guys married?” I asked our new friends while Tayghan was off in the ladies’ room.

“No, not married,” grunted Dmitri. Sasha, a thin, stunning blond rolled her eyes and looked away, an expression on her face of perfect boredom.

“Ah, how long have you been dating?”

“We are not dating. She is Ukrainian whore.”

“Oh, how interesting,” I said. “Um, how much was she?”

He gave me the rundown:  $300 an hour, $2000 for all night, $4000 for 24 hrs, long-term engagements negotiable with her pimp back in Kiev. “Yes, I bring three with me,” he said. “You want one?  I give to you, no problem.  You have threesome with wife.”

“Oh, haha.  Thanks, but I don’t think Tayghan would go for that!” I said.

“You are man. You make the money. You tell her—this is your vacation, you fuck who you want to fuck. You must be hard, and she will understand. You American men, so afraid to hit a woman!”

Tayghan came back and soon we were off to the beach rave, where Teghan and I danced with one of Dmitri’s whores while the other two fellated him as he stood knee-deep in the ocean, hands clasped behind his head, gently swaying as the beat of techno matched perfectly the rhythm of the twin blond pony-tailed heads bobbing at his crotch. It was the perfect ending to our first day in Goa!

Up next for tomorrow: paragliding, an Indian cooking class (yum yum!), and visiting a Hindu temple while tripping BALLS!

Steve K. Feldman currently lives in Cheonan, Korea, where he teaches literature and creative writing at the Bugil Academy Global Leader Program. He has been contributing fiction, non-fiction, poetry, theater performances, and stand-up comedy to a myriad of publications and events across South Korea since 2003.